


Your Friendly Neighborhood Iron Man

by NotWithThatAttitude



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Classism, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Social Commentary, Yeah bitch science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:05:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotWithThatAttitude/pseuds/NotWithThatAttitude
Summary: Bored with civilian CEO life, Iron Man goes on patrol to see what being a friendly neighborhood hero is like. Spending the evening with a chatty spider-teen quickly escalates and the two are forced to confront how little they understand each other.





	1. Reach

**Author's Note:**

> References to sexual abuse are non-graphic, but the emotional impact is more explicit

Tony Stark got bored.

It baffled Peter, honestly. In a mansion, full of the word's greatest tech with every resource to create more, with invitations to elaborate parties, with money to buy anything he could want and more... Mr. Stark got bored.

"I need to get out of the house," was how he phrased it. There had been a lull in world-saving activity, so until the next alien invasion or superhero war, the goddamned _Iron Man_ needed something other than suit tinkering to fill his time.

So here he was, swinging around Brooklyn with a superhero billionaire because there weren't any good parties this weekend.

"When does stuff... happen?" Mr. Stark finally asked. Peter tried not to laugh allowed.

"Sometimes nothing happens," Peter answered, "Although it usually picks up later on. Peaks around midnight, then trails off by about 6 AM." With bars open until 4 AM, New York really never did sleep.

"Well that's... exciting," Stark hummed.

"Sometimes being a street vigilante is really boring," Peter admits, "I usually just mess around building tops until something happens when it's like this."

Stark's shoulders sagged at his answer.

"Don't worry, Mr. Stark," Peter chimed cheerfully, "Brooklyn's been getting worse these last few years, so I'm sure it's only a matter of time before we stumble across a deal gone south, or maybe a good stabbing."

He couldn't tell through the mask, but he guessed Tony was glaring at him. A few more minutes of Iron Complaints passed before he sensed something.

"Follow that car," Peter announced, swinging out over the street below. Stark quickly caught up with him.

"What car?" Tony asked.

"The silver Camaro," Peter gestured with his momentarily free hand. The car swerved below him, grazing the curb with scraping metal and disintegrating rubber as it flew into an off street. The two superheroes sped after, gaining ground by the second.

Spiderman got there first, turning the end of the ally into a large, stretchy net. The smell of burning rubber wafted skyward as the tires spun against the sudden bungee induced stop. Peter landed on the hood with a thud, just barely denting the metal.

It would buff out.

Tony approached giddily, landing next to Peter as the boy yanked open the door of the driver's seat, "So what's your catch, kiddo? Drugs? Guns? A kidnapped missing person? A mob boss?"

Peter held a hand up, telling him to wait.

"Having a good evening, sir?" he asked the man at the wheel.

"I hav'n't don' anythin'," he slurred, "'M a good man, I swear!"

"Sorry sir," Peter quipped, "Drive sober, or get pulled over."

Tony turned dramatically, "You know, I've never hit a child before, but-"

"I'm so sorry, Spiderman," the man sobbed.

"Oh, come on," Tony scoffed, "Pull yourself together."

Again, Peter hushed him with a hand. Then he gestured to the man in the car to scoot over. The man complied, clambering into the passenger seat with as much grace as a baby giraffe.

"So what's going on?" Peter asked.

"My wife, she- I mean my ex-wife," he corrected, "She won custody. Not even a weekend deal, just total custody! I know her dad's a lawyer, but I didn't think I'd get screwed THAT badly, I just-"

He started crying again, "I can only see them when she says so. And she HATES me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Peter said, "I know it's hard to deal with things sometimes, and it's easier to try to forget. But you could have killed someone tonight. Someone else could have lost their kids because you drove like this."

"I know, I'm so sorry," the man cried harder, "I just needed to get out of that bar. Everyone was staring at me and I didn't want anyone to see me like this."

"I understand that, but it's not worth risking ruining your life or someone else's," Peter pressed on, "You have to promise me you won't ever do this again."

"For Christ's sake," Tony muttered. The man nodded vigorously, eyes locked on the Spider-man like he was the lord himself.

"Could you hand me your keys?" Peter stretched out his hand. The man quickly obliged.

"Alright Iron Man, I don't have a license, so this one is on you."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Tony exclaimed.

"What?" Peter shrugged, "Saving New York, one prevented disaster at a time."

 

* * *

 

  
The drive consisted of the man blubbering about how grateful he was that a true hero had given him a second chance, while Iron Man gripped the wheel so tight the metal fingers dented into the vinyl.

Tony roughly shoved the man his keys, storming away without replying to the teary "thankyousomuch,you'reahero" behind him.

"When I find that lanky-ass, slap'n'stick teenage boy scout-"

"You mean me?" Peter appeared beside him, sending Tony a literal foot into the air. He hovered next to the boy, wishing he could take his mask off to show this kid just how pissed he really was, because oh my god, the kid was still fucking smiling. He couldn't see his face, but he could just tell.

"What are you so happy about?" Tony spat, "Is wasting my time fun to you?"

Peter stopped, "You think this is a waste of time."

It wasn't a question and Tony suddenly felt uneasy.

"Well, I just mean that-"

"That someone else could do it?" Peter interjected, "Sure, they could. Anyone could have taken his keys or offered him a ride home. But they didn't. And they won't."

"We have superpowers," Tony swung his hands out in exasperation, "This is a job for the cops."

"My best friend's dad was killed by a drunk driver. It wouldn't have taken a superhero to save him. Just someone with good judgement paying attention. But no one did."

"I'm just saying," Tony sighed, "We're capable of so much more."

"I can detect a drunk driver from two blocks away," Peter said, "Can the cops do that?"

"...No."

"Then it's settled. We did a good thing. So how about some victory dinner?"

 

* * *

 

"Holy guacamole," Peter breathed, taking in the menu before him. Words with funny letters he didn't understand lined up with numbers that had to be in yen or something, and there were too many forks to possibly use in one meal. But Tony was buying (because "spider-teens eat even more than regular teens" and something about enhancing his powers and fighting on an empty stomach might lead to maiming and death), so he just picked something with a recognizable ingredient or two and hoped for the best.

"Elbows off the table," Tony scolded.

"Huh?" Peter questioned, "Oh, right. That's a manners thing."

"And you put the napkin on your lap."

"Why?" Peter cocked his head, "Wiping your hands on your crotch sounds weird."

"It's so you don't-" Tony stopped, "Never mind, just stop hugging your food like it's going somewhere."

"Sorry," Peter muttered, "For how expensive this stuff is I thought the plate would be bigger."

"That's an appetizer," Tony commented.

"Oh," Peter squinted at the plate, "I ordered an appetizer?"

"I ordered an appetizer for the tablet," Tony informed him, "You ordered an entree and when she asked if you wanted anything else to start, you ordered a second entree."

"Oh," Peter flushed a little, "Am I at least using the right fork?"

"Not even close."

During the next round of questions from the server, Peter's confused, pleading eyes convinced Tony to take pity on him and answer for them both, ordering Peter what turned out to be very like a brownie but fancy and unpronouncible.

"Thank you, Mr Stark," he said shyly. He didn't dare look at the bill dropped on the table.

Tony cracked a smile, ready to tease, just before his phone chimed.

"Good news!" Tony exclaimed, "I've got something on the police scanner."

"Oooo, a good stabbing?"

"Hostage situation," Tony said a little too gleefully.

"Sweet," Peter replied, equally too excited. Look, just because he was content with taking home drunks and saving kittens from trees didn't mean he couldn't enjoy an adrenaline rush.

His enthusiasm died when his curious eyes wondered to the bill before he could stop them.

"Mr. Stark," his voice was barely above a whisper, "Is that in dollars?"

"What else would it be?" Tony quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Oh my god," Peter hadn't meant for it to be out loud, but holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

"I could pay our electric, heat, and water bills with that," he choked out, his stomach suddenly rolling with the knowledge he'd just eaten Aunt May's past three double shifts.

He boxed the rest of the mystery food, too aware now to leave anything behind. Pushing down the nausea, he hoped the fancy food at least gave him extra crime-fighting nutrients or something.

 

* * *

 

 

Cops had the building surrounded. A man wanted for assault with a deadly weapon had run from the police and taken two residents of the apartment complex hostage. Locating the assailant was easy enough with Stark's tech. Getting there without anyone noticing would be a bit more challenging. Luckily, the sun had now thoroughly settled behind the horizon, making the suit in stealth mode nearly invisible.

"I don't like this," Tony asserted for the 7th time.

"So I've heard," Peter replied dryly, "Look, I'd love the company, but what do you think the odds are no one would notice a flying man propelled by tiny rockets?"

"None," Tony answered reluctantly.

"If anything goes wrong, you'll be right there to back me up," Peter assured.

He landed atop the building unnoticed and began crawling down the wall toward the target floor. In the window, a woman and a younger girl were standing facing the far wall, palms pressed against the drywall above their heads. Peter could make out a .22 pistol and about half of an arm through the window.

"Karen," he whispered into the suit, "Got anything that can put a very small, very quiet hole through glass?"

"Laser scalpels are essential in the construction of advanced technology such as-"

"That's great, Karen!" Peter mentally hushed himself at his own excited volume, "How do I use it?"

"Right pointer finger"

Peter meticulously melted a thin cut, slowly moving the laser until he'd made a circle about 6 inches in diameter. Grateful the hostages were pressed against the wall and unable to give him away, he took a deep breath in preparation for his move. He punched through the circle of glass, shooting webbing into the hand with the gun. A startled yelp rang out as he yanked the arm toward him and pulled it through the glass. The gun was now stuck to the man's hand, so removing the weapon was out. Instead Peter webbed the man's forearm to the outside of the window. Sure, he could break the glass, but not without seriously injuring himself and he was at too awkward an angle for him to do much more than balance on his toes uncomfortably.

The girl turned around first. Peter waved then gave a thumbs up before disappearing back up the wall.

"Success," Peter grinned beneath the mask as he announced to Iron Man his smooth, totally non-destructive situation handling.

"One interesting thing happened today and you hogged it all to yourself," Stark pouted.

Peter was about to laugh when he heard a soft whimper, then words.

He was gone before Stark knew he moved.

One block west, third building on the right.

Peter raced to the sound blindly. Before getting his bearings, he was already crashing through the high rise window.

A boy curled in on himself, his pants discarded. A woman leaned over him, holding him down with one hand on his chest, the other slipping under the elastic of his underwear. The boy pushed at her shoulder's helplessly. The boy was crying.

The boy was crying.

Peter saw red.

He slammed the woman against a wall, hand clenched around her throat. Her eyes met his in terror, barely focused and bulging. Flakes of cracked drywall stuck to the moister running down her cheeks. A desperate hand wrapped around his wrist, another grabbing blindly at his suit. He flinched at the touch, drawing back a fist.

  
"That's enough!"

Stark. He was patrolling with Tony Stark. He was Spider-man. And right now Spider-man was completely losing his shit.

He released the woman, who slid down the cracked wall with a thud. Someone was talking, but all he could hear through the ringing was the pounding rush of blood and his own frantic gasps.

_Calm down, Peter_

He tore his eyes away from the source of his boiling hate to focus on the boy cowering against the sofa.

"It's okay," Peter forced his voice not to shake, but it came out weaker than he would like, "You're okay now."

He approached slowly, crouching a few feet away. "You're safe."

Peter hoped the boy would believe him after witnessing the display of unrestrained violence he'd just unleashed on the woman still hunched in the corner.

"Is there anyone I can call for you?" he asked hopefully.

"M-my mom is at work," he stammered out.

Thank god, Peter sighed internally. The woman he just subdued wasn't the boy's mother.

"Do you have a way to get a hold of her?" Peter asked gently.

"She gave me a number for emergencies."

"Alright, we'll give her a call. Just let me-"

"We're leaving. **_Now_**."

Iron Man commanded it in his most intimidating adult voice. Still...

"We can't just leave him alone!" Peter protested.

"This entire street is crawling with cops and someone _definitely_ heard that," Stark replied. He didn't wait for an answer before grabbing  
Peter by the bicep and dragging him out the window.

A blurry flight and brief battle with nausea later, they stood on a roof top a few blocks away.

"What the **_hell_ ** was that?!" he shouted.

"I didn't- I didn't mean-"

"You didn't mean to?" Stark snapped, "Do you have any idea how precarious things are right now with the accords? Any clue how closely people are watching heroes for mistakes? For abuses of power? Do you understand how Spider-man grabbing a helpless woman by the throat would look to the press?"

"Helpless?!" Peter shrieked, voice jumping embarrassingly high, "Did you see-?"

"Yes, I saw. I'm not saying she didn't deserve it, but there's more at stake here than just how you feel!"

Peter fell silent. Stark shifted in annoyance, uncovering his face.

"I know we don't know each other that well, but I've never seen you lose it like that before. If this is a regular thing-"

"It isn't," Peter cut him off, dread eating at his stomach at the thought of Stark taking the suit back again.

"Then spill," Stark raised his hand in a gesture of exasperation, "What's going on with you?"

"It's nothing," Peter muttered, blood running cold.

"Oh no, you don't get to nearly smash a woman's head in and then say it's nothing," Stark stepped forward, radiating agitation, "You're going to explain."

Peter flinched back, freezing Tony in his tracks. The older man dropped his hands, suspicion leaking into his expression.

"Did someone come onto you?"

"No," Peter bit out too quickly.

"Someone at school bothering you?" he asked, concern joining the skepticism in his glare. 

"No."

"That Flash kid again?"

"No!"

"Is it a teacher? Just give me a name, and the full force of Stark Industries will-"

"It was a long time ago, it doesn't matter!!!"

The two of them rarely ever shared a quiet moment. Between Peter's chatter and Tony's brazenness, the air around them constantly buzzed with noisy energy. Now the silence weighed down, heavy and palpable.

"A long time ago? You're 15, what-?," he halted, voice failing for a moment before pressing on, "What happened?"

"It's none of your business," Peter spat, disguising the panic as anger.

"It is my business! Look kid, it's not safe to let you run around in high stress situations if you aren't ready for them. If you're going to be under my watch, I need to know-"

"Under your watch?!" Peter laughed, the sound less scathing and more hysterical, "I'm not a child you adopted, I'm a superhero! I don't need your help! I was Spider-man before I even met you!"

"Parker, just think about the big picture here, the position I'm-"

"Oh, I'm sorry my tiny little problems have put big important Tony Stark in an uncomfortable position!"

"That's not-"

"No, **_SHUT_ _UP_** , Tony! I don't need your protection!" Peter shouted, breaths coming ragged and heavy, "Not anymore!"

Suddenly, a swell of rage he didn't realize was in him swallowed up the fear.

"If you wanted to protect me, you should have done it back when I actually needed protection! Heroes are supposed to be crime fighters, but the hell does crime even matter to you? You just sit up in your tower with a few thousand tons of metal between you an any random scum with a gun! But I know what it's like out here! I know because I promise you, nothing that's happened to me as Spider-man even compares to the shit I went through just being a city kid bellow the poverty line!"

"Pe-"

"Of course none of it fucking matters to you, does it? Because what happens to every day people could never happen to the great Iron Man! Well sorry my problems aren't flashy like alien invasions or superhero wars, which by the way, got you more bad press than I've _ever_ had. No, my parents died in a boring old plane crash. My uncle was shot to death in a regular mugging. Shot for his wallet full of $37. You could wipe your ass with $37 dollars and not care, but that's what my uncle's life was worth!"

His voice was shaking as much as his hands. Distantly, his mind screamed for him to stop, but an invisible damn had broken and the words kept spilling out.

"And the villain that haunts me isn't a super-powered android or a literal god," he laughed hollowly, "No, it's just a neighbor kid who lived up on the fifth floor of our high-rise. Just a fucked up teenager! I thought he was my friend, but... I was wrong and..." his voice broke, eyes burning, "I was nine, I didn't- I didn't understand."

The last few words fell to a breathy gasp, barely understandable, but Tony heard enough.

"Christ, kid..."

Peter barely registered the response as he sunk against the brick behind him. The need to scream until Stark understood he was more than a kid throwing a tantrum fizzled out as quickly as it came. He'd wanted to prove he should be taken seriously, that he wasn't some naive child. Yet here he was, curled above the city sobbing into his knees. He bit down on another round of sobs, subduing them with a shuttering breath.

_Stop crying in front of Iron Man, you pussy._

He could sense Stark still there. Part of him wished the older hero would decide the teen wasn't worth his time and leave. But Peter didn't get lucky often. When he finally lifted his eyes, the Iron Man suit was gone. Tony Stark crouched a few feet away in a t-shirt and jeans, deliberately not looming over or crowding him.

"I'm sorry," Peter croaked.

"Don't be," Stark said, uncharacteristically soft. He shifted awkwardly, "Mind if I sit?"

Peter nodded and Stark slid next to him, leaned against the wall with a good foot or so between them.

"So... uhh... Do you want to talk about it?" Tony managed.

"I don't know," Peter admitted, "I haven't brought it up to anyone in so long. My aunt is the only one who knows about it, and... even then I was pretty vague. I didn't give any details until the police interview and they let me do it alone. Since the trial, I just... tried to pretend it didn't happen."

"So... you've never really talked about it to anyone?" Tony questioned, "Not even, like-"

"A shrink?" Peter finished, "I was molested the same year my parents died, of course I saw a shrink. I didn't really say much to her though. I don't think I really had the.. vocabulary to talk about it back then. Couldn't make sense of it."

"Oh," Tony struggled for something constructive to say.

"He's getting out next month," Peter whispered.

"What's that?"

"Skip. Steven Westcott," Peter squeezed his eyes shut, "My... friend who wasn't my friend, he- he's up for parole next month."

"Well, he's not getting parole on my watch," Tony spat harshly, "Not a chance."

"It's not your problem," Peter said quickly.

"It is," Tony asserted, "And not because I think you aren't capable or need protecting, but because- because you're a good kid and you deserve to have someone looking out for you."

"Are you sure you want to hear it?" Peter sighed.

"Only if you want to tell me."

"He made me look at porn and... he said he wanted to try some stuff..." he trailed off, "It's hard to say out loud. I don't really know if I can, honestly."

"Okay," Tony nodded thoughtfully, "That's okay. I have trouble talking about Afghanistan."

Peter hummed in acknowledgement.

"I know I'm the adult here," Tony struggled to make the words form, "But I'm not good at this kind of thing. I just... I want you to know that I... -that I know what it's like to feel confused and helpless and... trapped. And since New York, sometimes I can't breath and apparently that called a 'panic attack'. So I don't understand what you feel, but I can at least understand the past not letting you go."

Peter wanted to say thank you, but his mouth wouldn't open, so he just hummed again. Silence settled over them. Finding his voice, Peter finally spoke.

"Hey, Mr Stark?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Can we eat somewhere cheap next time?"

"Why?" Stark chuckled, "I'm buying because I want to, kid, you don't have to feel bad about it."

"It's just that I can't stop thinking about all the other things I could do with that much money. Like, I could get a new dryer so we wouldn't have to hang our laundry around the kitchen. And I could fix the heater in Aunt May's room so she'd stop sleeping on the couch when it gets cold. I could get MJ a new backpack so she can stop using the same one from 5th grade. Although, I think she might actually just like the aesthetic of the holes in it. She's kind of a grungy rebel type like that. Counter-cultural I think it's called?"

"If you need money-"

"Don't," Peter cut him off, "I already applied to a pizza place. I have an interview on Thursday. I owe you too much already."

"Yeah, well throwing money at problems is the only way I know how to help people. That and lasers hands."

"I don't need your charity. I need an economic system that allows the working class to earn a living wage from the industries that depend on their servitude.

"...Is your whole generation like this?"

"Pretty much, yeah"

It was a lie. There were plenty of teenagers who could understand Tony Stark. But they drove Lincolns and ate with the right forks. They knew how to order appetizers and went to cool parties. They walked home from those parties without a pocket knife in case they got mugged. They smoked weed at parties, but would never go to jail for it. They were from Tony Stark's world. This was the closest the two of them had ever been to understanding each other, but the distance still felt like a canyon. Tony Stark was flashy and bold, his ego a rebellion against his father's words. Peter went through life trying not to take up too much space; an orphan dropped on people who never asked for a child, trying to prove himself worth the inconvenience. But there was a weight they shared. A fear that they would never be good enough, never move on, never be happy. A fear that they were broken on some permanent fundamental level neither of them had words for, and couldn't admit out loud even if they did.

"Would it be different if I offered you a job?"

Peter was ripped from his thoughts, "Are you serious?"

"Why not?" Stark grinned victoriously.

They hadn't found a way across the canyon yet, but they could at least hear each other yelling from the other side.


	2. Can't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony introduces Bruce to his new pet spider
> 
> WARNINGS: gun violence, panic attacks, self-harm, non-graphic references to sexual abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the convenience of my story, Stark Tower is still a thing instead of relocated upstate. Because the logistics is a pain for a very minor timing detail.

_10 AM this Saturday. That should give you enough time to oversleep and put on acne cream and whatever else you kids do these days. You're getting in the car as soon as Happy gets there, so don't be naked._

 

Peter had sat on the front steps for half an hour now, picking at a tupperware of muffins Aunt May made (she insisted on baking because "food wins over even the meanest of coworker") and periodically running back inside to see if he should bring something else, then deciding against it and sitting back down. He'd switched between a sweatshirt and long sleeves twice now because _a sweatshirt is cozier and but I might get too hot so I could just wear long sleeves but then if the airconditioning is on high I'm going to regret not wearing the sweatshirt but if I wear long sleeves AND a sweatshirt then he'll suspect I'm over dressing-_

Peter's brain did that kind of thing a lot.

He'd fucked up last night. Turned out he maybe hadn't calmed down as much as he thought and, in the stillness of night, couldn't get that boy out of his head. The woman's face had already blurred into a hazy red caricature he vaguely knew he wanted to smash. But the boy's squeezed-shut eyes and soft whimper were seared into his brain. 

_I was about that age._

He'd never really thought about what it would look like to an outsider. His memories were sensations more than images. The texture of cheap couch fabric growing warm and damp with his smothered breath. The smell of Axe that Skip sprayed around his room in lieu of actually cleaning it. Panicked nausea. Choking. Nothing that painted a clear picture of the scene and trying to draw it out in his head required thinking about _details_. So instead he remembered the boy's face and wondered if a stranger might have felt anger and protectiveness for young Peter, rather than the blame and disgust he'd always imagined. But all that thinking sent his head reeling through a familiar pattern of _shame_ _fear_ _trapped_ _helpless_ and he couldn't get himself to **stop**. So eventually he _forced_ himself back to the present (because "grounding" was a real coping mechanism, right?) and the radiator was right there and he hadn't _meant_ to hold his arm to the hot metal for that long. He finally settled on a sweatshirt over a T-shirt since if he really got too warm he could play it off as an accident without too much trouble. He jumped when a car horn alerted him to a _freaking_ _limousine_ parked outside his building. The ride was awkward and quiet and Peter mostly just tried not to touch anything.

While not his first time seeing Stark glamour, Peter couldn't help but find himself staring at... basically everything. An indoor pond with plants growing up to several feet above his head. Ceilings high enough to fit at least 2 apartments. He found himself torn between awed fascination, and finding the whole thing an impractical waste of space and resources. 

"Fifth floor, third door on the right," Happy spoke for the first time since Peter clamored wide-eyed into the limo, "Lab Delta."

"Thanks," Peter punched the button on a glass elevator that he assumed was meant to showcase how spacious and generally massive the building was. The hallway he stepped into looked normal enough until he opened the heavy door to Lab Delta and found himself gawking at an interactive hologram being paged through by Tony Stark and another man whose face hid behind the floating graphs and numbers.

"Hi," Peter waved awkwardly, "I, uhh, I brought muffins."

 

* * *

 

Tony was acting weird. Bruce had seen the man excited, angry, drunk, and sleep deprived, but this chatty anxiety was new. After several minutes of patient listening, Bruce decided to interrupt the lecture on electromagnetism replacing rocket-based hovering.

"Tony, why am I hear?"

Tony quieted for a moment, "Remember that Spider-guy I mentioned?"

"The one you described as 'thoughtless chattering sticky-tack'?" Bruce recalled an incident involving a boat Tony had been sulking about at the time. He'd heard little else about the elusive small-timer. Just a comment by Natasha that a couple bug-based supers joined the war during Steve and Tony's big breakup. 

"Yeah, that one."

"What about him?"

"Well..." to Bruce's confused amusement, Tony looked genuinely uncomfortable, "I know I said he was young, but... I kinda might have not been forthcoming enough."

"How young are we talking?" Bruce imagined a college kid sneaking out the window of a busted party with his spider-hands, "Like, can't buy a drink young?"

"...Fifteen."

" _Tony_ "

"I know"

"Do his parents know?!" Bruce exclaimed, slamming his stack of note on the table.

"They're dead," the confession fell to a low mutter.

" ** _Tony!_** "

"I know!" Tony huffed, "But I can't _stop_ him, the kid's got super powers! And even if I could, I don't think I have the right to."

Bruce drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and hear the other man out.

"What do you mean?"

"He can scale walls and sense things from-"

"Not the powers, the part about not thinking you have the right to stop him," Bruce clarified. Tony had a knack for overstepping boundaries and entitling himself to other's business. How a child managed to deter the Iron Man's usual headstrong egotism Bruce had to know. 

"He's, well... he's been through a lot. And local crime has affected him more than it ever has me," Tony explained.

"So you decided to let him go through more," Bruce wondered if Captain Stars and Stripes would implode if he found out he'd been fighting a literal child. Softening his tone, Bruce reminded himself he was trying to listen and understand before getting angry (or something like that), "Something pretty compelling must have happened for you to go along with this."

"His uncle was shot in a mugging. The uncle that took him in after his parents died. Among... other thing," Tony finished.

Well that was a loaded statement, but he wouldn't press for now. 

"I see. You're trying to reach out to him, but you're Tony Stark and allergic to basic human intimacy," Bruce inferred, "So instead of signing some Iron Man gear and helping him win the science fair, you gave him deadly weapons." 

"You're one to talk about intimacy, Mr. Hides In Obscure Countries."

 "Exactly, that's why I'm a terrible choice to help you connect with a troubled teenager," Bruce huffed exasperatedly. Seriously, it was a marvel he still knew people who wanted to talk to him.

"You're the only other science nerd," Tony protested, and then made the most intense pouting face Bruce had ever seen on a grown man, "You have to help me."

"Fine," Bruce muttered reluctantly, "But you have got to install a baby-monitor or something."

"What kind of monster do you take me for?" Tony clicked open a window showing a red spider on a map standing... right next to them.

"Hi"

Bruce turned, looking over his shoulder to see a Caucasian boy in an over-sized sweatshirt, almost succeeding in covering his nerves with a friendly grin, "I, uhh, I brought muffins."

"Great!" Bruce clapped his hands together, looking pointedly at Tony, "All this cowardice was making me hungry."

 Tony ignored him, "How you doing, Spiderling?"

"Not bad," Peter remained barely a foot inside the room, glancing around like he wasn't sure he was allowed to exist there, much less touch anything.

"Come on in," Tony encouraged, "I've got us something cool to play with."

Peter glanced over the hologram. Scrawled in Tony's chicken scratch handwriting, equations floated above the lab bench. More scribbles crossed out and adjusted barely legible variables. Even with digital notes, Tony kept the old-school idea that no lab work should be erased, only crossed out and added to. The boy's brows furrowed in concentration and it occurred to Bruce that he might actually understand some of it.

"Overcoming gravity with electromagnetic fields?" Peter inquired, "Are we talking superconductors?"

"Yes," Stark confirmed with a grandiose pointing gesture, "But not just sticking cold magnets on top of each other. I'm going to find a way to use the electromagnetism of the earth to create lift."

"Sweet!" Peter exclaimed.

"At room temperature," Stark pressed on. Peter faltered.

"You're crazy," Peter shook his head, "I know you're a genius, but even you can't-"

"The Germans proved years ago it's theoretically possible to create a superconductor at room temperature," Tony brushed him off.

"Yeah, for about 2 seconds," Peter protested.

" _Possible_ ," Tony continued confidently, "And if the laws of physics can't stop me, no one can."

"So where do we start?" Peter allowed a smile.

"The most promising candidates have been ceramics. Copper oxide has gained some good results. But I have a present from a certain royal friend."

"No way!" Peter bounced with excitement.

"Way," Tony grinned, pausing for suspense like the garish drama king that he is, "T'Challa graciously lent me a piece of vibranium to play with."

"So you're going to layer a ceramic superconductor with vibranium particles!" Peter caught on.

" _We_ are going to," Tony corrected, "Me, you, and my grumpy friend in the corner."

Peter finally took notice of the man leaning on a lab bench behind him, realizing he was most definitely not a lab assistant. Bruce gave an awkward wave.

"You- you're Bruce Banner!"

"For better or worse," he replied dryly.

"You're work is incredible!" the boy was practically vibrating, "So do you think it's possible for us to make this work?"

"I've discovered that it's futile to tell Tony 'no'," Bruce answered, "So I've resigned myself to this either working, or Tony throwing a lot of expensive things into a wall."

In truth, Bruce had spent most of the morning pondering how room-temperature superconductors would revolutionize the efficiency of modern technology and believed if anyone could manage it, it would be Tony. But he didn't need to know that.

"I appreciate your faith in me," Tony replied, "So, Spiderling, I've got a couple different distributions compounded right now. I was thinking we'd start with-"

"Finishing your meeting logs. You can keep playing after you sign these," Pepper, appeared in the doorway. Long suffering as ever, she held a protein bar and a bottle of water to force into her negligent partner. Tony pulled a pen from his pocket and reached for the pages, "No, no, no, you have to actually _read_ them first."

"Noooo, Pep, come one, I was just getting to the good stuff," Tony whined. Pepper grabbed his wrist, towing him out of the lab.

"Then I'll read them to you, you overgrown child," she glanced back at Bruce and Peter, "I'll give him back in 10."

And thus Bruce found himself standing alone with a strange child he had spoken one sentence to. He wracked his brain for something to say (seriously, I'm a middle aged superhero, I can handle one social interaction). He finally came up with _ask his_ _name,_   _dumbass,_ when-

"So..." Peter broke the silence awkwardly, "Your powers are triggered by anger, right?"

"That is my gig, yeah," Bruce deadpanned. God, he was bad at this.

"Does it ever scare you?"

Not the question he'd expected from a curious boy who had only seen the Other Guy via alien-punching heroics. Most kids asking something more like "what's the biggest thing you've ever thrown at a bad guy," or "Is it true the Hulk broke Loki's spine?". He found himself too surprised to lie.

"All the time."

"How do you control it?" the boy asked and, okay, now this was getting to the heart of things way faster than Bruce felt prepared for.

"Sometimes I don't," he replied, growing anxious at his own honesty, "That's why I only get involved when it's really necessary."

"Oh," the kid said thoughtfully. Disappointment settled behind Peter's weak smile.

"Hoping for a better answer?" Bruce tried to smile, but he knew without seeing that it was empty. It wouldn't be the first time he disappointed those who expected him to be more. Everyone saw footage of the Hulk doing something amazing without realizing the unpredictable nightmare being the Hulk entailed the other 99% of the time.

"I was just hoping you had some tips on how to keep it from getting out of hand," Peter said, purposefully staring at his shoes. A pang of curiosity interrupted Bruce's discomfort.

"Having some problems?" Bruce prompted.

"I just... something happened. I'd never felt so angry before. It just took over and I was acting before I realized it. I don't think the anger itself is new, I think it's been there for a long time, but suddenly it had an outlet and," his voice lowered, "I scared myself."

"Being angry isn't a crime," Bruce quoted his therapist, "You just need to learn to channel it so that it isn't destructive."

Peter nodded, seemingly lost in thought.

"It sounds like you've already been trying that," Bruce commented, try not to sound like his usual cynical self in front of the troubled kid. Seeing confusion on the boy's face, he elaborated, "Tony told me about what happened to your uncle."

"Oh," Peter fidgeted, "Yeah, that's why I started, but it wasn't really... an anger thing."

 Bruce's raised brow proved enough to prompt the boy to explain.

"I kinda, well... I got him killed," Peter's maintained smile began to border on a grimace, "The people who shot him had already robbed someone else, but that someone screwed me over so I just let them go. I thought that if I stopped it from happening to other people, I could kinda- like... redeem myself, I guess."

Bruce made a mental note to ask later what business a teenager had somewhere theft and mugging were commonplace, "That doesn't sound like your fault."

"I have superpowers, I have a responsibility to do something with them. But I was too busy being pissed off about money and let someone dangerous go free. It was petty and selfish and now Ben is dead," voice suddenly elevated with frustration, the boy sighed sharply, "May isn't even related to me. I'm just some kid who got dumped on her, one with shit luck who cost her a husband."

Bruce took a few psychology classes in his many years of university. Somewhere along the way he'd read it's common for children to overestimate their own influence over their environment. In this way, the egocentric nature of youth manifests as excessive guilt and anxiety rather than common selfishness. Children may believe trauma and death occur as an effect of their own wrong doing because they have not yet learned the terrifying truth: that individuals have little control over anything. Education, salary, life expectancy, all can be predicted by the zip code of their birth. Dreams may fail, plans may crumble, and sometimes you may even find yourself suddenly shape-shifting into a giant green monster. But would any of this mitigate the grief, or simply aggravate the helplessness?

"I wonder..." Peter interrupted his musings, "Mr. Banner, sir, do you think she would still keep me if she knew?"

_Say_ _something_. Bruce's mind spun, trying to put the data and theories into something coherent. Something _helpful_. He wanted to put out the fear; to assure him that his Aunt couldn't possibly blame him, but then... he didn't know the kid's aunt. She shouldn't, but Bruce had learned over the years not to assume such decency. So he settled for the truth, "If she doesn't, you're always welcome here."

Peter's far-off gaze snapped into focus, "You met me 5 minutes ago."

"Tony is much easier to read than he thinks," Bruce explained softly, "He'd take you in in a heartbeat."

Silence settled around them again, but not awkward the way it had been at first. More peaceful. Peter needed time to think, Bruce wasn't much of a talker to begin with.

"So, how did you get screwed out of money in a sketchy alley?" Bruce mused, eyes glued to his work. 

"Asshole skimped my winnings from a cage fight," Peter answered flippantly. Bruce choked on his coffee.

"You did _what?"_

"We needed the money," he shrugged, "Better than working corners."

_Tony_ , Bruce wondered with exasperation, _what the hell did you get us into?_

* * *

 

After how their last joint patrol went, Peter assumed it would be a one time activity. Yet here he was on another New York night, perched on a building top with Iron Man. He could only hope it had more to do with genuine interest than pity. Stark flipped between the police scanner and an impressively long game of Pac-Man while Peter scratched "Spider-man was here" into a concrete ledge. The quiet evening unfortunately gave him plenty of time to reflect on his over-sharing with Bruce freaking Banner. He really hadn't meant to. Sometimes he just got like that after a meltdown. He wouldn't think, he'd just word-vomit all over whoever happened to be around and then agonize about it for the next several days. So there he sat, scratching at cement and loathing his own big mouth, all while knowing it still wouldn't stop him the next time.

It had been nearly two hours when he finally heard something. Miles from their stake out, the crack of a .45 echoed across the city. 

"Follow me," he said, leaping into a swing. The sound gave him only a general direction, but soon he was close enough to  _feel_ it instead. As the buildings shrank, leaving him jumping more that swinging, his senses took him to a graffiti-covered alley at the edge of Brooklyn. He dropped to the ground while footsteps faded down the adjacent street.  Iron Man landed beside him, shining light around the alley. Before Peter could mention the retreating culprits, his blood froze.

"Oh shit," Tony muttered.

A puddle of red spread beneath the torso of a young man, shirt torn open leaving the damage exposed. Most of the blood poured from a bullet wound through his ribs. Smaller streams trickled into the flood from angry slashes across his chest that spelled out "SNITCH". A shrill wheeze accompanied every weak breath, followed by rough gargling. Peter quickly knelt beside him (in spite of not really feeling his legs anymore).

"Can you hear me?" Peter asked the unresponsive figure. The only sign of hearing was a slight hitch of breath that may or may not have been a response. Peter held a hand out to Tony, voice even but cold, "I need your credit card."

"I don't think this is the time for shopping, underoos," Stark quipped shakily, but complied.

"Call 911 for an ambulance," Peter instructed as he laid the card over the hole in the man's chest and carefully webbed it to the skin on three sides, "Hopefully that will keep his lungs from collapsing until the EMTs get here."

"Friday is calling," Tony informed him, "Which way did the bastards go?"

"West on Sutter," Peter mutter hollowly. He gently slid an arm beneath the man's back and rolled him onto his side. The gargling lessened as blood drained from his mouth onto the pavement, "I'm staying here."

Iron Man flew off without another word. 

"You're going to be okay," he said to the man, "And you'll have a cool story about how you were saved by superheroes. And maybe you'll be able to find a better way to support yourself that doesn't get you shot."

Glancing around at the crumbling architecture and continued lack of sirens, he doubted his own words. 

"I guess I'm not what you need though, am I?" Peter laughed hollowly, "A nurse or an EMT could help you better than I can. My Aunt May would be great! She's an LPN at a hospital in Queens. She works hard and helps people for 12 hours at a time. If she were here instead... I don't deserve her."

Apparently Peter's word-vomit extended to even unconscious people today.

"My uncle said that power is a responsibility. And I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to use that power for good, but..." tears pricked behind his eyes, "I don't do it right. I have super strength and senses, I can climb buildings and still, I _still_ \- I can't- ....I can't do anything right."

The young victim's eyes fluttered slightly, followed by a small cough before he stilled again. Peter was grateful for the unconsciousness. The idea of panicked screams or wet groans of pain he can't fix made him shutter. Hopefully the real professionals would arrive before then. But what would the man do when he woke up? Would he be safe in the hospital, or would the shooter try again? Did he have a job, or was the gang he betrayed his only income? Did he have health insurance? If not, would the hospital throw him out once he was stable? Would anyone visit him? How would he support himself while recovering? Spider-man wouldn't know. He doesn't stick around for that.

Or maybe none of that would matter because this stranger probably wouldn't make it. His breaths grew slower and the blood pooled as first responders took their time getting to a run down corner of the city like this. Peter looked from the bleeding boy at his knees to the spray painted wall looming over them. The colors layered chaotically. A tiger jumping through flames, names in spiky letters, a crude caricature of George Bush grinning on a grenade. It might have been beautiful if not for the worn fading and chipped away sections. His eyes landed on the shine of black paint. 

_No one listens to the cry of the poor or the sound of a wooden bell_

He jerked around at a tapping sound behind him. In the window of a townhouse across the street, a little girl held a paper to the glass. The sloppy purple crayon read, " _Thanks_ , _Spider-man_."

"Don't thank me," Peter whispered to himself, "I can't do anything."

 Approaching sirens cued his exit.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically just Peter's depression getting to him and since he doesn't know how to ask for help, but just blurts out cynical questions and then feels worse about himself.
> 
> IF YOU LIVE IN AN AREA WITH REGULAR GUN VIOLENCE
> 
> I am certified in First Aid, CPR, and Basic Life Support, so this is something you really can use in an emergency. With most gunshot wounds, priority one is to apply pressure to prevent blood loss. Chest wounds are an exception. Priority one instead is to preserve air pressure in the chest cavity to prevent the lungs from collapsing. The aim of the three-sides-taped card trick is to let air out without letting air in.


	3. Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's happy act begins to crumble, while Tony reflects on the life sentence of birth and discovers Wendy's signature frosty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was set up (so no one's favorite thing), but this one zeros back in on Tony and Peter's relationship.

Tony had taken down a small band of armed gangsters, only seriously injured one, contacted the police, made a statement, and still Peter hadn't caught up to him. Finally, he broke down and asked Friday to locate the boy, leading him to the roof of Stark Tower at 2 in the morning.

"Kid?" he asked into the darkness where he was about 40% sure he could make out the curled up shape of a person.

"Hi, Mr Stark," the kid replied weakly, "You get 'em?"

"Sure did," he said, lowering himself to sit a few feet away, "All four of them."

"Great," Peter almost managed to sound excited. The slight quake in his voice and the drying blood soaked into his hands, forearms and knees ruined the illusion. Tony wanted to grill for answers, but he was slowly learning he'd get farther with a bit of patience. So instead, he sat quietly. 

"Do you ever think that... maybe the whole hero thing is just a way to feel better about yourself but it's really all just too little too late?"

Tony stared at him, taking a moment to process the question. It wasn't exactly inaccurate. For years he'd paraded around the city, basking in the attention that money could buy. His twenties were a blur of parties and acquaintances with long forgotten names, used and replaced to block out an overwhelming cocktail of emotions that mixed and blurred into a vague sense of pain that would only grow worse when he named them. Grief for his mother, his one source of warmth and stability. Regret for his father, never digging into the stoic enigma and losing his chance for closure. Not reconciliation, he was too angry with the man for that, but understanding Howard enough to make sense of his childhood. Maybe even finally quiet the voice in his head that told him his father's distaste and disinterest weren't due to the parent he was, but the child he had. 

"I guess that was a little random," the Peter said with a breathy laugh, "Sorry. Forget it."

Tony meant to respond, but his train of thought had gone off the rails, kidnapped the conductor, and strapped him to the roof.

According to America's Golden Boy, the cold businessman he knew had once lead a wild, womanizing lifestyle. Tony began to find pieces of himself where he thought no common ground could exist. A lonely youth turned wild young adult, reaching middle age before learning to care about something greater than himself and take responsibility, then finally growing withdrawn when the world's tragedies became too much. Impulsive hedonism, egotistic selfishness, frayed exhaustion masquerading as indifference. Tony's behavior had always been a show. A spectacle for the tabloids, ready to exploit any emotion that slipped accidentally into the charade. Whether drunk or detached, indifference was the best emotional defense against public scrutiny.

But Howard Stark had not been born in the spotlight. He had to fight and climb and _take_ it. The calculating, impersonal shadow that loomed at the edges of Tony's childhood remained a 5,000 piece puzzle with half the tiles missing. Because Howard Stark did not come from Tony's world, he built it. A young Howard couldn't be found menacing a robotics lab with precocious curiosity and cookie crumbs, or rigging the elevator to lock so he could throw his tantrum in sulking isolation somewhere his father couldn't completely ignore his son's spite. No, the son of a fruit salesman and seamstress in those years would be more likely found bootlegging moonshine or gawking through glass as blood poured from a gang member's head before his mother pulled the curtain shut. He entered adulthood as The Depression destroyed jobs, families, and futures. Tony always had a vague notion that his father's iron fist and paranoid secrecy descended from the desperate origins he never spoke about. But his only experience with the trials of the working poor in New York were black and white photos of mothers selling the children they couldn't afford to feed and legendary gangsters in cryptic mugshots. 

Until Peter.

After four decades of alternating between dying to understand, and deeming the man a shit father regardless of cause, he now sat next to his father's childhood. A boy with working-poor guardianship, carrying his birth like a sentence. Howard defied his lot with fierce determination to take what wasn't given, Peter with heroics to prove himself more than the labels he hung like badges in his mind.

Was he a hero for the attention? For the validation of his own value? Did he become Iron Man to take back the control the Ten Rings took from him? Did Tony, Peter, and Howard all become new people to escape the trap of who they were?  

"My own ego definitely plays a major role in all of this, yeah," Tony admitted with an anxious hope Peter wouldn't think less of him. It wasn't like the confession was news to anyone who had spent more than 5 minutes with him anyway.

"My uncle was shot in the chest," Peter went on, "I tried CPR, but it doesn't work too well when the air just goes right out through a hole blown in their lungs."

Tony's heart clenched, remembering the shrill whistle and wet groans of failed breaths from earlier that night. He imagined hearing those sounds from Pepper or Bruce. Not while stopping crime or fighting invasions, but suddenly, in an average day. The harsh toll of the death rattle had simply become common.

"The compressions kept oxygenated blood circulating to his brain longer, but also probably helped collapse his lungs faster," Peter grimaced, nails digging into his arm, "So I essentially extended his suffering while decreasing his long term chances of survival. I heard May talk about gunshot wounds from work, but I never paid enough attention. I was useless. When I realized he was gone... He looked the same but he was getting cold and I knew... Ben wasn't there anymore. And that scared me, so I just sat on the sidewalk and watched the ambulance take him away. I was afraid to touch him. -Isn't that weird?- Because he wasn't Ben anymore, his body was just a shell. I'd never seen a person die before. I knew my parents were dead before the funeral. Someone explained to me that they weren't in their bodies anymore. But when someone is alive and with you one minute and the next they aren't but they don't  _look_  different... And you're just stunk in that moment where they weren't dead, your brain hasn't updated yet and you're still trying to figure out what you should have done instead while you were panicking, and you aren't sure how you fucked up, but you know you did and he's gone and... I- I'm rambling now. Forget it."

"I'm sorry, kid," Tony said quietly.

"About what?"

"You're too young for this," Tony lamented, "All of this."

"That's not how the world works," Peter smiled sadly, "It doesn't care if you're young. There's no age limit on things that aren't supposed to happen."

"I know," Tony sighed, remembering Edwin Jarvis's gentle voice at his parents funeral. _You're too young for this. I lost my mother in my 40's, yet still felt the ground had crumbled beneath me. It shouldn't be like this._ He hadn't fully understood then how young 21 really was, how much care and guidance he'd missed out on as a young man. Shuffling from his place lounged against the wall, he leaned himself into Peter's line of vision, "So what kind of cheap food do you like?"

"Frosty"

"Those little milkshake things?"

"Yeah."

"Do you wanna change out of the suit, or do you want to make a scene of Iron Man and Spider-man kickin' it in a Wendy's?" Tony asked playfully.

"No suit," Peter replied. And that had Tony more worried than odd question or the roof sulking. Peter usually love an opportunity for good-natured chaos.

Wendy's turned out to be an even stickier florescent nightmare than Tony imagined, but kept quiet seeing a bit of light return to Peter's eyes. Tony had carefully inspected the bench for a stretch free of soda and ketchup because he was  _not_  walking out with any fluids but his own. He'd managed to sneak a layer of hand sanitizer over the tablet top before resting his arms on the plastic.

"So, wanna make a tradition of victory frostys?" 

Peter froze, spoonful of chocolate frosty halfway to his mouth, "Victory?"

"We put four dangerous people away and saved another," Tony asserted, "Is that not a victory?"

 "He probably died," Peter replied flatly, "He was barely breathing when I left and he lost a lot of blood. And that's just looking at what was on the ground, not what was filling up his lungs."

"Well that's optimistic," Tony remarked.

"Haven't had much luck saving people that way," Peter said quietly.

"Hey," Tony leaned down, stretching further forward until he forced Peter to make eye contact, "Whether he lives or not, you did a good thing. You know that right?"

Peter shrugged.

"You did," Tony insisted, "Your uncle would be proud of you."

"I need to run to the bathroom," Peter's face twisted as he jerked to his feet, rushing away with a hand over his mouth and disappearing into the men's room.

"I'll... be here then?" Tony said to the air. The pale table under his hands was completely empty except for Peter's frosty, which appeared to be some kind of frozen half and half creamer mixed with Ovaltine. Confused, bored and abandoned, he finally gave in. 

"Oh my god," Tony mutter, "It's amazing."

 

* * *

 

Peter practically fell onto the toilet, hunching himself over the bowl to empty all traces of frosty. On the bright side, ice cream wasn't too bad to throw up. More sweet and slightly cool than the biting acid taste that came with most vomiting. 

_Your uncle would be proud of you_

He was so useless. He let Ben die. He let Skip touch him. He let Flash bully him. He let Tony chase the bad guys while he sat there and watched a dying man fade. 

_Useless_

He couldn't even let Tony be happy about his own success. No, he was sulking in a Wendy's bathroom because he couldn't even get through a pity frosty without having a meltdown. He swiped angrily at the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. _You don't get to cry. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get up._

His legs refused the order, so instead he crumpled against the grimy wooden stall divider. Sometimes his body just gave up on him. His voice would fail him. His hands would freeze. His legs would collapse beneath him. No matter how loud his mind screamed, his body betrayed him. 

_"Can't you find someone else? My husband is away for work and my nephew has school in the morning," Aunt May huffed into her cell, "It's not my fault we're short staffed, I- fine. Fine! I'll come in, but I'd better make overtime for it."_

_Peter's stomach clenched as he refused to look up from his legos strewn across the floor, "Have a good shift."_

_"You know you're too young to stay home by yourself," she sighed tiredly, pulling him off the floor, "Come on."_

_"I'm fine," Peter protested._

_"Peter, I don't have time for this," she tugged his arm harder, "Let's go."_

_The walk up to the Westcott's apartment felt like a gallows march, with Peter dragging his feet every step. May wrapped on the door._

_"Hi Steven, is your mom home?" she asked with a forced smile._

_"She's working tonight," the monster answered._

_"Shit," May pulled out her phone to try another contact when Skip stopped her._

_"I can watch him," Skip offered, "His school is in the same direction as mine, so I can just leave a little early in the morning."_

_"Would you?" May exclaimed hopefully, "Thank you so much, just, something came up and I hate to do this to you so suddenly but-"_

_"You're on call, right?" he inferred, "I know you work crazy hours, it's fine. I don't mind. Pete and I can just hang out for the night."_

_"You're a godsend," May sighed with relief, squeezing Peter's shoulder, "I'll see you after school tomorrow, kiddo."_

_Peter watched her leave down the hallway, panic buzzing in his chest, telling him to call her back, demand to go home. To scream and cry and throw a tantrum like a toddler. Anything to keep her from leaving him there. But his feet were lead and his voice abandoned him, choked out by a tightness that grew painful with each shallow breath._

_"Get inside, Pete," Skip ordered, "Don't worry, we'll have a good time."_

"Underoooos," Stark called, "You fall in or something?"

"Fuck," Peter whispered, scrambling up to open the door. He schooled his expression into something hopefully resembling calm and pushed out of the stall, "I'm fine, Mr. Stark. Just texting on the toilet like the kids do these days."

"Peter..." Stark let out a rush of air, eyes scanning over the boy. Peter caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and flinched. Eyes bloodshot, knees dirty from the bathroom floor, and worst, a few splashes of pale brown vomit marked the front of his sweatshirt.

"I..." Peter started. He didn't have a good explanation. There's wasn't one.

"Bruce called me," Stark told him softly, "He mentioned you asked him a couple questions."

Peter took sudden serious interest in the tile floor, cursing his big fucking mouth.

"He also brought up a bit about your aunt and uncle," Stark pressed on, "Pete, I need you to look at me."

Peter's eyes flicked up and immediately averted. Stark stepped closer, approaching slowly like Peter would bolt. As if he had anywhere to go. 

"Peter. I need you to look at me and tell me you know Ben dying was not your fault."

Eyes squeezed shut, air rushed in with a hiss through his clenched teeth. 

"None of the things you've told me about were your fault. I've met May, she couldn't possibly blame you. Not for being a burden, not for your trauma, not for Ben. None of it," Stark placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder, "Stop feeling guilty for existing, kid."

"I'm too scared to tell her," Peter choked, face scrunching with an undignified sob.

"I'll go with you if you want," Stark assured him, "If you really can't say it, then I will, but you need to be there. Is it alright if I hug you?"

Peter nodded.

Tony Stark and Ben Parker were nothing alike. Ben was warm, down to earth, a working class man who found happiness in the simple things. Tony Stark was bold, harsh, generally unimpressed, and distanced himself with layers of snark. Ben's pride and approval came easily, Stark would slip a backwards compliment into a facetious lecture about his own superiority. Yet somewhere along the way, Tony Stark had begun to fill the void Uncle Ben left. Mr. Stark listened to him chatter about electronics, bought him comfort food, and now pulled him from his isolation into a warm, fatherly embrace that Peter hadn't realized he missed so desperately. Being honest with himself, he hadn't felt this safe since Ben died. To no fault of his aunt's, of course. Aunt May had taken losing the love of her life with the strength and resolve of a woman who fought death for a living. She once told him that while she would never stop grieving her husband, her work had prepared her for loss in life. She had sat with dozens of grieving families struggling to understand how life would go on.

 _"But it does,"_ she had said _, "I always does. If you're still breathing, you can go on. It may never 'get better'. It may hurt for the rest of your life. You may never stop missing that chapter you shared with them. But you can go on. You can find new things and new people to make you happy. New relationships to give you purpose. You and I are still here, sweetheart. I have my carrier, I have my friends, and I have my nephew. I don't know if I'll remarry. Someday I might. But that's not all there is to life. And you, Peter, you have your whole life ahead of you. And I'm going to give you the best start that I can."_

Peter had tried to smile, but it hurt to look at her. It hurt to watch this wonderful woman be strong for him, to accept her warmth and her comfort when he couldn't stop wondering if the truth would make her hate him. If she _should_ hate him. And after she found out his nighttime hobby, the guilt had compounded. 

 _"I know I told you life goes on, but remember that part about how it will hurt for the rest of mine? Don't you_ dare _go leaving me alone, Peter Benjamin. I know I can't stop you. But I hate that you're doing this and I'm not going to be quiet about it."_

"I don't deserve her," Peter sobbed, "She's so good to me Mr. Stark, and she's not even related to me. She works so hard and she's going to night school to be an LPN because CNA's don't get paid much even though they do such important work. She's so smart. She wanted to get her BSN and then her masters to be a practitioner, but she switched to a shorter program so she could work more when they took me in. She always said she was going to do a bridge program after she saved up a couple years. But then when Ben died, she... she stopped saying it. She never mentioned that she gave up her goals to take care of me. She never blames me for how tired she is when she comes home at 6 in the morning on a crazy ER weekend. I always told myself I would help her out after I got through college and I didn't even realize how selfish that was. I didn't even think to get a job and help her until a couple months ago. She deserves so much better."

"Why don't we let her be the judge of that," he spoke into Peter's hair, "Is she home right now?"

"She got off at 11," Peter muttered into Stark's chest, praying that his nose hadn't started running onto a suit that cost more than all his possessions combined.

"Then lets go before you can agonize about it more," Stark released him, but kept a hand on his shoulder. The last five minutes had been more physical affection between the two of them than Peter could remember seeing Stark express ever, and it left him reeling, but warm, "And you can call me Tony, ya know? I like being respected as authority and everything, but I think we're past that now that I have your puke on me."

Oh. Peter had forgotten about that, "Sorry."

"Stop that," Stark-no, _Tony_ scolded.

For the sake of Peter's taught nerves and impending crash of emotional exhaustion, they opted to take the subway rather than wait for Happy to navigate the city traffic.

 

* * *

 

"You should probably lose the vomit-coat," Tony advised under the gaze of a staring passenger. New Yorkers had seen a lot, but a dazed and ill boy traveling incognito with a middle aged billionaire may raise suspicion in even the most jaded city native. Peter nodded passively and shrugged out of the sweatshirt, revealing an angry red burn. On another person, Tony would assume it to be a few days old, but with Peter's healing it must be recent, "What happened there, underoos?"

"Touched a hot pipe in the alley," Peter muttered, face pinched in nauseous anxiety since they boarded. Tony didn't believe him in the slightest, but let it go for now. Only one emotional crisis per subway ride allowed.

The walk to the Parker's apartment passed painfully slowly, Tony suspected more due to Peter stalling than genuine illness. But he remembered Howard shoving him into a room of men in suites he was expected to impress, anxiety sending his 14-year-old heart into palpitations. Young enough to still fear his father's outright rejection, he'd memorized polite words and phrases that sounded intelligent and business-y, not "technical gibberish born-rich stockholders don't understand or care about". Even a child as strong-willed as Anthony Stark took time to unlearn the ingrained need for his guardian's approval. 

A few feet from the door, Peter's dragging feet slowed to a complete stop. A soft "I can't" whispered behind him, so Tony knocked on the door himself. A slow rustle followed by quick footsteps, then clicking of locks.

"You lose your key, honey?" the door flung open to reveal crumpled sweats acting as pajamas and a sleepy gaze. The sleep quickly cleared from her eyes as May startled at the very-not-Peter figure standing in her doorway.

"Hi May," Tony smiled, "You're looking lovely as ever."

"Tony-" her brows scrunched in confusion, "What are you doing here? Is Peter alright?"

"I'm okay," Peter stepped from his hiding place behind Tony. 

"Peter just needs to talk to you about something," Tony tried to sound innocuous, like personally delivering her kid at 3:30 in the morning for a talk was a totally normal thing for them. May read Peter's fear in his body language immediately. 

"What happened, sweetheart?"

"I need to tell you something," his voice shook with terror, but the words were clear, "It's about when Uncle Ben died."

"Come sit down," May instructed with a somber nod, "You too Tony, make yourself at home."

May scooted comfortably down the couch, clearly expecting Peter to sit next to her, but he opted for the chair across the coffee table instead. Tony took a stool by the kitchen counter, behind May and off to the side where he wouldn't be intruding, but could still shoot Peter encouraging looks. He felt like a nosy spectator, but suspected if he left (and the threat of someone else telling his aunt gone with him), Peter would claim it was really nothing and bolt immediately. May leaned forward, hands laced on the coffee table within her nephew's reach, inviting contact, but not forcing it.

"When I met you at the hospital..." Peter started scratching at the burn May had yet to ask about, "I said I was with Ned and the hospital called me... I was actually... I was actually at a fight."

"Okay," May nodded, expression soft, "Something happen with the kids at school?"

"Not that kind of fight," Peter shook his head, "A cage fight. There was a big gambling ring around it and I thought... if I used my powers I could make some money."

May's retroactive fear manifested in a sharp gasp.

"I was fine," Peter assured her, "I won. And since so many people bet against me I should have made a lot. But then the vendor cheated me out of most of it. I was mad and disappointed... I thought I could help you guys out for once, but this guy screwed me over, and with the adrenaline left over from the fight I was just so angry."

"That's understandable," May replied, "It makes me want to throw up with worry and punch every person who made a game out of hurting my kid, but that aside, the money was a dick move too."

"I was leaving when a man with a gun came in," Peter confided, "He robbed the vendor and I- I could have helped, I could have stopped him, but... I thought he got what he deserved. It was petty and irresponsible, I know, I have powers and I just stood there-"

"Are you crazy?" May cut him off, "You're strong, not bullet proof. I'm all for you letting _everyone_ with a gun go."

"But, Aunt May, he..." Peter's voice grew thick and choked around the lump in his throat, "He killed Uncle Ben."

May froze, the pieces falling into place, hands covering her mouth as she whispered in realization, "You were there."

"I tried to do what you told me, but it didn't work," tears fell from Peter's red eyes, "They shot him 4 times in the chest, I didn't know what to do. CPR didn't work, I- I think I just made it worse. I could have stopped it. I could have saved him. He told me power was a responsibility, but I just used it to make quick money and then stood there when a crime happened. I let Uncle Ben die because I was selfish. I'm so sorry."

Wide-eyed, May opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"I'm sorry I made your life so hard. You had to leave school because of me. You had to pay for lawyers and take off work to go to court because of me. You lost your husband because of me," Peter's sniffling turned to hysterical sobbing, nails digging into his arm, "Every time I let something bad happen, it hurts you. I'm so sorry."

May stirred from her stunned silence to round the coffee table dividing them. Kneeling by her nephew, she pulled his hands from their destructive scratching and held them in her own.

"Peter Benjamin Parker," she said sternly, "Do you really think your Uncle would have wanted you to fight a man with a gun?"

Peter stilled.

"Honey, power doesn't mean a kid who got bit by a spider," she placed a gentle hand on his cheek. Peter flinched, but didn't pull away, "Power is bigger than that. Power is a general in command or a president leading a country. It's a CEO with thousands of jobs and lives in their hands. It's people in a position that gives them power over other people. They have a responsibility act carefully because those actions have large affects. You're 15, Peter. You don't have to be anything just yet. Your abilities are yours to decide what to do with."

Peter shook his head, not in denial so much as complete incomprehension. He'd internalized Ben's words in the way he interpreted them to his core. Hearing otherwise simply did not compute.

"Petey, please look at me," May murmurer.

The cautious sideways glance he gave could maybe by some be considered 'looking'.

"We haven't had an easy time, have we?" she squeezed Peter's hand gently, "I remember the day your parents died. You were watching this recording we had of a PBS special about how DNA replicates. I still remember this little animation with talking amino acids being picky friends. I heard the door slam and when I saw Ben's face and I just _knew_. Most parents get nine months to prepare, but Ben and I had to learn in the moment. He was afraid we were too young. We both worked, but didn't make much. It didn't matter that we already saw you more than your parents did before their deaths. We were busy and inexperienced. He was afraid we couldn't give you the support you needed to heal after losing your mom and dad. And then we let Skip hurt you."

Peter jerked from her grip, startled like he'd touched a hot stove.

"You didn't know," Peter blurted, "I knew it was wrong, but I didn't tell you. I didn't do _anything_. I just let it happen."

"Peter," May's voice was gentle but firm, "Children are not responsible for their own protection. Keeping you safe was my job, and I failed you. I didn't notice the signs. I even dragged you to that apartment. Sometimes I see you flinch when someone touches you or hear you cry in your sleep and I get so angry with myself I can't breath. But Steven Westcott's actions were his own, not anyone else's. I'm angry at Steven. I'm angry at the criminal who shot my husband. And on bad days, I'm angry at myself. But I have never once blamed you, Peter."

Hands clamped tight over his mouth, a broken sound escaped as May draped her arms around him, running a hand through his hair. Over her nephew's shoulder, her eye's locked on Tony, having clearly forgotten about him. She gave a hesitant thumbs up that Tony awkwardly returned before slipping quietly out the front door.

After a data search on recent shooting in Queens by Friday and quick phone call to the ER, Tony typed out a text to Peter.

_He lived_

Not technically true, the man's heart did stop once in the ambulance. But at the hospital, he'd been a lucky match and received and emergency blood transfusion almost immediately. A chest tube and a surgery later, he was stable. Not okay, necessarily, but alive.

_Do you think it's all too little too late?_

Maybe it was. Maybe every ounce of his investment in Peter Parker was out of a selfish desire to find closure with his own parents. Maybe he would remain irredeemably self-absorbed forever, using heroism as a means of escaping his own hopelessness. 

It didn't matter.

He did a good thing today. And he was getting a goddamn frosty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if this was covering too many topics at once, but in my experience, once someone gets on a roll with their meltdown, everything just kind of comes out at once. Hopefully it wasn't too muddled

**Author's Note:**

> Homecoming, particularly Vulture's motives, got me thinking about class issues in the marvel universe and how drastically different Tony and Peter's day to day lives are and I wanted that to explore that, particularly when it comes to the normalization of trauma among the working class. 
> 
> Reactions are appreciated


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